Lost Boys
by hobgoblinn
Summary: Past and present meet in the dungeons of Hogwarts, and a ghost and a boy form an unlikely friendship. Set not long after the epilogue to Deathly Hallows. "Two Dads" is a stand-alone, but it can also be read as prologue to this.
1. Visions of the Afterlife

**Lost Boys **

**Part 1/14 - Visions of the Afterlife**

_Summary/ Notes: This story is actually the main story for which "Two Dads" was backstory. Four years later, the past and present are about to meet in the dungeons of Hogwarts. Set not long after the epilogue to Deathly Hallows._

_Thanks to ladyclover and clavally for comments on early versions of this section, and to sniggs for a fascinating extended discussion that helped me quite a lot._

The shadowy figure who haunted the sub basement of the castle's dungeons could not remember how he'd come to be there. He just knew he liked the cold, and even more, the quiet. No children underfoot. Once in a very great while someone might venture down this far, but his silent, invisible malevolence quickly drove the miscreant back up into the world above. He could not remember the last time he'd had cause to speak aloud -- possibly it had been prior to his own death. This also pleased him a perverse sort of way, though he wasn't sure why.

He was vaguely aware there were others like him in the castle, but they steered well clear of his chosen territory, and he certainly was not about to venture into the world above. He had deduced that he was, in fact, dead, and beyond that he had no real curiosity about his state. His memories were hazy and fragmented, but he sensed that once he had been charged with terrible burdens and responsibilities. It was a relief to know all that was behind him.

Now, he spent much of his time in a peaceful, drifting state, not unlike that of a man having a well-earned lie-in on a Sunday morning. Not that, he was fairly sure, he himself had ever experienced such a thing in life. It was a state of not marking or much being aware of time at all, and he found it suited him quite well.

But an intelligence as keen and restless as his could not drift always, and then he would rouse himself and begin his careful observations and experiments. What could he do now? What could he make happen? As it turned out, quite a lot, once he developed the knack. He could move objects, even pick some things up in his misty fingers. He could use his ghostly wand to wield some magic-- it didn't feel quite "right", but he could cast simple spells and charms: lumos, alohomora, wingardium leviosa.

He could also perform some minor wandless magic-- again, he felt he had once commanded considerably more power, but now, he found the ability to light candles with a negligent wave of his hand more than enough. Even if the act always reminded him of someone. He couldn't quite remember who it was. Someone who had been important to him, once. Then he would scowl at the missing memory and wave his hand impatiently again to extinguish the flame.

He could also affect the few living creatures brave, or stupid enough to enter his domain. He could make the corridor temperatures rise or drop at will. He was especially fond of the cold. Something about seeing one's breath suddenly mist up in the damp chill made the living quite deliciously uncomfortable. Plus, he could weave abstract patterns of frost on the damp corridor walls. He loved to watch the jagged white tendrils spread across the stones like some living thing. And he quite enjoyed projecting fear into his hapless victims, watching them scramble to get away. It was a pleasant enough pastime, all the more for being so very infrequent.

And he would explore. That was how he added a third activity to his timeless routine. When drifting brought no peace, and experimentation no diversion, he would seek out a certain room, a room only he could enter by passing through a sealed door not even magic could unlock. There was a large mirror there, very old, with ornate lettering around its heavy frame. He never bothered to puzzle out the letters. He simply gazed into the glass, and beyond.

Sometimes he saw a woman with red hair and bright green eyes. Familiar and lovely, but though the image filled him with vague regrets and sometimes unbearable sadness, he could never force his eyes to look away until the mirror showed another scene or image.

Sometimes he saw a boy in the mirror, with untidy black hair and similarly intense green eyes. The boy was sometimes quite young, at other times, almost a man. Whenever he saw the boy, felt equal parts anger, worry, and, oddly, pride. He knew he had once been responsible for the boy in some way. He could taste his old frustration, how he had despaired of being able to keep the foolish child safe, or at least, alive. These scenes he could usually walk away from, and he often did, seething with a rage he could not understand.

Sometimes, afterward, he would cast his mind back through his fragmented memories wondering what had made this boy so important-- a task, he rather thought. Something he himself had devoutly wished for and had not lived to see. Something he believed that the boy had, in fact, managed to do, in the end. The idea mollified him somewhat.

Sometimes, he saw an old man, with a long white beard and regrettable taste in robes. The garish colors were somewhat muted in the dim light of the room. But the ghost retained some hazy memories of this man, enough to supply from memory the colors clashing on those ornate robes.

The sight of the old man filled him at times with a kind of exasperated affection, at other times with terrible rage and sorrow. He knew this man had relied on him. And he knew that at the last, he had done something the old man had wanted, something so terrible that it had torn a part of his own soul away to do it. He found himself glad, then, that he could remember no more. And he drifted away, trying not to see the love in those deceptively innocent twinkling blue eyes.

And of course, he sometimes saw his own form in the mirror staring back at himself. Long black hair framed a sallow face. Black robes. Hooked nose, impressive sneer. He must have been a terrifying sight in life. That thought also pleased him immeasurably. All in all, it was not a bad afterlife, especially when he considered that he'd expected (probably deserved) much worse.


	2. Little Boy Lost

**Part 2 - Little Boy Lost**

_DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else._

_The boy introduced here, though-- he is mine. Please ask before you borrow him._

* * *

A sound roused him. Labored, frightened breathing. A terrified child would sound like that. He drifted curiously toward the sound. Just as he coiled his power to begin his cold and repelling charms, he caught snatches of a desperate, whispered monologue.

"You're a right idiot, David Dursley," he heard the boy mutter. "You've no business here at all-- none. It's not natural, not for the likes of you, no matter what Dad says. Gran's right. You're a freak, and not just at home. Everywhere. Why, you can't even keep your wand lit up with that light thingy spell..."

"That 'light thingy spell' would be _lumos_, Boy." The ghost surprised himself by demonstrating with his own wand, even more than by speaking in the first place. He chuckled a little as the light flared up in the pitch black corridor and the boy nearly jumped out of his own skin. He waited as the boy's eyes grew accustomed to the light again, and he saw a certain relief wash over the pale features as the child realized he was no longer alone in the darkness.

"Perhaps if you troubled yourself to learn the correct incantations, you would have more success," he continued, in the same low, sarcastic tones.

The boy was very small, he noted. The words "first year" came unbidden to the ghost's mind. Also, once the little fellow had got over his initial shock, he seemed to have an overabundance of that resilience and foolhardy boldness that, he dimly recalled, had once been the bane of his existence.

"Hullo. You're one of the ghosts, I guess. Have we met? I've seen your face somewhere before, I know it."

"I doubt that, young man," the ghost replied, with an icy sneer. "I certainly have never laid eyes on you before this day, and I sincerely hope I never do again."

"It was in a book, I think," the boy said, scrunching up his eyes as if trying to remember.

The idea was unsettling. The ghost had never much known or cared who he had been in life. In fact, he found the loss of his identity oddly comforting. But now, after two minutes alone with this strange boy, all kinds of old thoughts and feelings began to flicker through his mind, none lingering long enough for him to grasp. The ghost scowled at him. The boy noticed the look then and seemed to recollect his manners. "Er, I'm David. David Dursley. Hufflepuff."

Hufflepuff. The word was familiar, but the ghost pushed the feeling aside to scowl more ferociously. "And what are you doing so far out of bounds, Mr. Dursley from Hufflepuff?"

The boy grimaced. "I'm lost. 'Cause I stayed too long in that library after all my friends left for class, and then James told me Potions was in the dungeons and I should just keep going down and I couldn't miss it, but I must have and..." He sighed. "I'm hopeless."

"Or you should know better than to trust anyone named James," the ghost replied thoughtfully, from another dim memory of his own life.

The boy chuckled sadly. "Yeah, I'll say. He does like to play tricks. But it's not his fault I can't find my way out of a wet paper bag with a guide dog and a map. I'm just hopeless." He paused, then sighed, "So hopeless, in fact, that I am right now missing my first ever class at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Wonder how long before they chuck me out?"

Hogwarts. That was familiar, too. Mixed emotions there. Home, the only one he'd ever really known. But a place of constant torment, irritation, burdens, and toward the last, unremitting fear and loathing. He couldn't bring the details to his mind, and he sensed he was rather glad he couldn't. Another familiar word too...

"Potions, did you say?"

The boy was looking at him, hope lighting up his small face. "Know where it is?"

The ghost shrugged. "I might have, once. I have forgotten a great deal."

"Does that happen, from bein' a ghost and all?"

"It did to me," the ghost replied shortly. "Now, if you could bring yourself to be silent for a few moments, Mr. Dursley..."

The boy subsided, and the ghost stared off down the dim corridor for a time. He could almost see the doorway he wanted. He drifted off down the corridor in the direction the boy had come, allowing old instincts to guide him to a stairwell.

"Here, I think," he announced when they reached it. "This stairwell should take you back to the dungeons proper. Your classroom should be in a hallway two rights and then all the way down a long hallway, left, then right. Can you remember that?"

The boy just stared at him blankly. "I, that is, er..."

The ghost gave a long-suffering sigh. He longed for more peaceful drifting, but he sensed he would get no peace at all until he returned this boy to the world above.

"Oh, come along," he growled at last. "Follow the light of my wandtip." He himself vanished, to be replaced by a small globe of blue light. "And I want your solemn promise, Mr. Dursley, not to reveal my presence, nor this place, to anyone, even if you could find it again."

The boy nodded, looking thoughtful. "Sure. Sometimes I like to be alone, myself," he said quietly. He followed as the blue light led him back up to the inhabited corridors, growing ever dimmer until, hearing voices of a class letting out around the corner, it winked out altogether, and the boy rejoined his classmates.


	3. Detention

**Part 3 - Detention**

A few nights later, the ghost was inspecting the potions classroom supply cupboard when he found himself joined in the room by a familiar boy and a fairly daunting Potions Mistress. "Sit here, Mr. Dursley," she commanded imperiously, and the boy stumbled over himself to comply.

"Now, Mr. Dursley. I am aware that this castle can be difficult to navigate at first. Regardless, your absence for my first lecture places both you and your classmates in an untenable position. Tell me, Mr. Dursley, what do you think would happen if I allowed you to begin brewing potions without your knowing any of the proper procedures?"

"I'd probably blow stuff up," David replied. From the boy's expression, the watching ghost could tell he was not the only one who thought this was likely, regardless. The Potions Mistress appeared to take no notice.

"Just so, Mr. Dursley. Now, as my time is valuable, and I am not in the habit of repeating myself, this is how we shall ensure that you possess the necessary information. You will copy out this lecture," she handed him a neatly penned sheaf of parchment, "and then you will summarize it for me orally to my satisfaction. Only then will you be allowed to participate in laboratory activities with your classmates."

David took the proffered parchment. "Yes, Professor Harridan," he replied dutifully. He pulled a bottle of ink and his quill from his bag and began to copy. Madame Harridan watched him for a moment, then nodded in a self-satisfied way and went to her desk on the far side of the room, where she pulled out a stack of much less neatly-written parchments and began to mark them, muttering under her breath.

The ghost returned his attention to the potions cupboard with an approving nod. For the most part, it was well organized, though he found himself in some disagreement with certain of the Potion Mistress' choices-- surely powdered griffin talon was too volatile a substance to be so readily available to students. And storing bloodroot next to hellebore-- what in Merlin's name was the woman thinking?

He glanced back toward the living occupants of the room and was surprised to see the boy looking directly at him, curiously. The cheeky fellow gave a small grin and quick wave before turning back to his task. The ghost studied him thoughtfully for a few moments, then drifted over to read the boy's version of the introductory lecture he had missed.

"Atrocious penmanship, Mr. Dursley," he sniffed. "And I see you received a well-deserved detention."

David risked a quick glance up at his Professor, who was still scratching away at her own marking to a steady stream of hisses and growls, then whispered, "Yeah. And my penmanship would be just fine if I didn't have to use these bloody feathers. Why can't ballpoints work in this stupid castle?"

"Language, Mr. Dursley," the ghost reproved mildly. "And you will get used to them," the ghost reassured him, remembering vaguely he'd had similar thoughts at that age. "I trust you will be a little more circumspect about class attendance in the future?"

The boy nodded, then continued to attempt to write, and the ghost returned to his survey of the potions classroom. An idea was beginning to form in his mind. After the teacher and her charge had left for the night, he could easily "borrow" a few items. He knew a perfect space, two floors below. He would set up his own private laboratory. He'd had a passion for the art, once, and more than passing skill. As he handled various implements and ingredients, he discovered he could indeed perform the necessary motions for most brewing tasks. He smiled to himself.

The boy cleared his throat, then said, "Um, excuse me, Mister Ghost..."

The ghost looked up murderously, but the Potions Mistress was no longer in the room. Slightly mollified, he merely glared at the child. "What do you want now, Boy?"

"How come I can see you, but Professor Harridan can't?"

"How in blazes should I know?" the ghost replied shortly. In his experience, nobody could see him at all, though admittedly, he didn't get out much.

The boy flinched at the tone, then shrugged. "Just kinda odd, is all." He turned back to his work a little sadly. The ghost studied him for a long moment. Then he came over and slid into a seat across from the boy at the work table.

"I see they have yet to 'chuck you out,'" he observed finally, grudgingly.

The boy snorted. "Week's still young." He said it with the air of one quoting someone else, perhaps an older relative. The ghost nodded approvingly.

"That's the spirit," he said. Then, frowning, he felt compelled to add, more kindly, "Though I must tell you it's quite unlikely the headmaster would have sent you a letter if you were entirely without ability. And I have seen a number of students considerably more hopelessly dunderheaded than you complete their educations satisfactorily at this fine institution, over the years." He wondered where that knowledge had come from, but in that moment, he knew it was quite true. A number of unconnected facts began to swirl through the ghost's mind-- things he had once found interesting, or amusing.

The boy looked up. "Really?"

The ghost smirked darkly as one such fact surfaced. "Of course. I seem to recall one in particular who managed to melt an entire gross of cauldrons in a single term."

"No way," the boy grinned. He was about to continue when a voice from the doorway froze them both.

"Mr. Dursley, perhaps you have not made it to that part of the lecture, but conversations with imaginary friends are strictly forbidden in my classroom. Get back to work."

The boy traded a look with the ghost, then sighed. "Yes, Professor Harridan," he replied. But he gave the ghost a quick grin and a wink before settling back in to his copying.


	4. An Intruder

**Part 4 - An Intruder**

_Distribution: Sure. Let me know where it's going. From this point forward, written, unbeknownst to me, for the snapeafterdh ficathon "ghost snape" prompt. Thanks to elphabaofoz for suggesting I apply, and the mods for accepting a late claim and letting me post the lion's portion of the fic here._

_Thanks to ladyclover for fantastic beta work. And now also to rainkatt and emmessann who have also donated their time quite graciously. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own._

_DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else. David Dursley, however, is mine. Please ask before you borrow him._

_Summary: Past and present meet in the dungeons of Hogwarts. Set after the epilogue to Deathly Hallows. This section-- a few years after the last one._

The ghost could never quite work out, later, how the boy became part of his routine. He'd honestly never expected or intended to set eyes on the earnest young man from Hufflepuff after that second chance encounter during the boy's detention.

He'd occupied himself for months gathering all the materials for potions-brewing, many from long-forgotten storerooms on the lower levels. Wrestling a decent sized cauldron into his chosen lab space had been difficult, but he had nothing but time, really, and in the end he managed it. He went along his new routine quite undisturbed for a considerable span of time: drifting, gazing into the mirror, brewing, locating ingredients and equipment, then more drifting.

But one day, he returned from his mirror in an unsettled mood to find a strange boy in his workspace, quietly examining by wandlight the ingredients lying on the table beside the cauldron.

"Here, now! What are you doing in my laboratory? Get out, at once!"

The boy turned bright green eyes on him and smiled. "I thought these might be yours," he said.

He was familiar, but the ghost could not quite place the boy, who looked to be about 14 or 15. "Who are you?" he asked peevishly, scowling.

The boy's grin faltered a little. "David Dursley, Sir. You saved me from starvation, or worse, my first day at school. Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"My memory of recent events is perfectly fine, Boy," the ghost replied loftily.

"Yeah, well. I guess I have grown a little bit, too," the boy admitted. "My mum keeps telling me she's gonna find a spell to stop me from growing. But she's not magic, so don't know how she's gonna do it."

The ghost was surprised to find his unsettled feelings dissipating in the presence of this inane prattle. That was the only excuse he could find later, when he asked himself why he had encouraged it to continue. "Your mum's not magic, then?"

"Nah. Dad's not either. But somebody way back in our family musta been, 'cause my dad's cousin is. And his mum was, too. My little sister's not, though. Just me." He sighed. "Sometimes, I wish I weren't so special."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I just miss them, sometimes," the boy admitted. "Uncle Harry's great and all, and this place is brilliant, but I don't really fit in anywhere."

"I knew a Harry once," the ghost mused as if to himself. Finding the boy's eyes on him uncomfortable, he added, "I am sure I must have detested him."

"Yeah. Say, have you remembered who you are or anything?"

"No. Nor do I wish to. Once again, I must ask, why are you down here? Lost again? Surely you're too old for that by now?"

"Nah. Just my common room's still crazy tonight, on account of we beat Gryffindor at Quidditch yesterday, and I have a test tomorrow I really have to pass."

"And you thought this dungeon would be more conducive to studying than, say, the library?" the ghost asked sarcastically.

"Ah well, that. I'd usually go there, but there's someone I kinda don't want to see right now, and she pretty much lives there these days. Please, let me stay. I promise I'll be quiet."

The ghost glared at the hopeful face. "All right," he said finally. "But if you bother me, I will chuck you right out-- of this room, as I sadly no longer have the authority to chuck you out of school." Even as he said it, he wondered where that certain knowledge had come from.

But the boy was grinning and agreeing enthusiastically, and before he quite knew what had happened, young Mr. Dursley was cleaning off another table near his cauldron and setting a globe-shaped lamp of unfamiliar design on the corner of the table and lighting it with his wand.

"What is that?" the ghost found himself asking, intrigued.

The boy blinked. "Oh, just something I put together. It looks sort of like a muggle lamp, but it works by magic-- see the little flame inside the glass? Gives off better light than candles. Safer, too." The boy finished unpacking his books and settled down to read, making notes from time to time on the parchment on the table before him. The ghost watched him thoughtfully for a while, then turned to his own work.


	5. Conversations with the Dead, Part 1

**Part 5 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 1**

Somehow, the one-time study session ("I passed with an E," the boy proudly announced later) became a regular part of the ghost's routine. The boy didn't come every night, especially after he mended fences with whomever he'd had a row with, but he came several nights a week, saying he preferred this study spot to his common room, and that he generally got more done here than at the library.

Sometimes he asked the ghost an academic question, and they would discuss or debate the answer until almost curfew. Other times, the boy seemed to sense when the ghost was in a more receptive mood, and then he might venture a personal question.

Once, the boy asked, "Have you ever been in love, Sir?"

The ghost snorted in grim amusement. "I'm certain I had young ladies thronging about me in my youth, Mr. Dursley," he replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. "How ever could they have failed to be attracted by my rugged good looks? Don't talk nonsense, young man."

David grinned. "All right, you are pretty off-putting now. But you've been dead for goodness knows how long. Don't you remember anything about being in love, when you were alive?"

The ghost thought of the green-eyed woman in the mirror.

"I'm certain that if I retained any memories of love, they would not be happy ones."

David sighed. "At the rate I'm going, l won't ever have any memories. I can't even talk to a girl without tripping over my tongue and making a complete idiot out of myself."

"How fortunate for you, then, that idiocy is the natural state of the adolescent wizard," the ghost replied. "You'll fit right in with all the other equally idiotic boys your age. I expect girls find it very hard to distinguish between any of you."

"Um... Thanks," the boy said.

"Don't mention it."

* * *

Sometimes, David would bring up the ghost's identity, or lack thereof. "Doesn't it bother you? Not knowing who you were? What happened to you?"

"Not particularly."

"I think you must have been a professor," the boy decided. "You know too much not to have been. Plus, you do haunt a school."

"No, I haunt a dungeon. A dungeon where nobody save you, for what reason I cannot fathom, ever ventures." The ghost paused, considering. Then he offered, only half in jest, "I could have been one of the wizards who died building this castle."

"Maybe," the boy replied doubtfully. "But the ghost of a builder could probably duplicate my lamp a lot more easily than you seem to be doing." The boy nodded toward another work table, where the materials for a copy of his magic light globe were scattered haphazardly.

The ghost sniffed disdainfully. "Perhaps I was hopeless as a builder, and that's how I died."

The boy regarded him sadly. "I don't think so, Sir."

* * *

"Professor? Do you ever dream?"

The ghost thought of the mirror, and the woman with green eyes, and the boy, and the old man. "No," he rasped. "Absolutely not."

* * *

"What's a mudblood?"

The word filled the ghost with a curious mix of revulsion and shame. At length, he responded, "It is an offensive term for wizards who are Muggle-born."

"Like me."

"Yes."

"We're studying about the Last War in history. Professor Binns is a ghost too, you know. He says before I was born, a dark wizard rose up and gained followers by torturing Muggles. But he was half-blood himself. I don't understand that."

The ghost felt a dizzying cascade of images, horrors. Things he had seen and done, long ago. He heard himself say, as from a distance, "Those who feel they don't fit in anywhere will do many stupid things not to feel that way. Including pretending to be what they are not, and hating what they are."

David mulled that over for a long time. So did the ghost.

"Professor? You say it like-- Did you, you know, ever do something like that?"

With the eyes of the dead accusing him, though he retained no firm memories of his actions, he could not lie to the boy. "Yes. I suppose I must have."

Finally, the boy said, "The Muggles make up names to call other Muggles, too. I heard kids do it at my old school. Sometimes-- I called kids names, too." He sounded miserable, confessing it.

The ghost considered carefully, then said, "I think it's more important, what you do when you know. Would you do such a thing today? Knowing what you do now?"

"No." The boy was emphatic. They shared another moment of pensive silence. Then the boy asked, tentatively, "Professor? Did you know?"

"I don't remember," the ghost whispered. But he thought about it, long after the boy had left him for the warm spring night above.


	6. Conversations with the Dead, Part 2

**Part 6 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 2**

_Thanks to ladyclover, rainkatt and emmessann for fantastic beta work. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own. Also, I have to admit the use of the word "filthy" for "dirty" look below is a usage I had never seen before reading some of mistful's work. I'll owe her a little more later, but for now, thanks to her for that._

_DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else. David Dursley, however, is mine. Please ask before you borrow him._

_Summary: Past and present meet in the dungeons of Hogwarts. This part set 4-5 years after the epilogue to Deathly Hallows._

* * *

One night, the ghost heard voices echoing down the corridor.

"Just a little further, Rosie. I promise, I'm not crazy."

"Your whole family are raving lunatics," came the girl's tart reply. "I swear, David Dursley, if you're just trying to get me alone somewhere so you can try to snog me, you are going to be in a world of pain."

There was a short pause, then, "No. Of course not. Um, besides, the rose gardens are a much more romantic spot. Or the top of the Astronomy Tower. For that. If I was ever thinking of... Which, I'm, er, not. Unless you'd like to...?"

"David," the girl replied, halfway between warningly and amused.

"C'mon, it's just through here. He won't hurt you." He pulled her into the room just as the ghost drew himself up to his full, very imposing height. "He's my friend." The boy faltered a bit as he said it, catching sight of the ghost. But then he glanced back at the girl, and a dreamy smile washed over his features.

"This is my girlfriend, Rosie," David said, in the annoyingly blissful voice of the young, in love, and clueless.

"Charmed, I'm sure," the ghost said in a frosty tone that indicated he was neither.

The girl was looking oddly at David. "Er, David. There's nobody here."

"Sure there is. He's right there, by the cauldron."

The ghost folded his semi-translucent arms across his breast and began to smile at the boy's obvious discomfort. "What have your teachers told you about imaginary friends, Mr. Dursley?" he taunted.

David shot the ghost a quick, filthy glare. "This isn't funny," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Davey? You've been studying too hard again, haven't you? I warned you about that, you know. You really should come back up to the library with me. It's ever so much nicer. How do you stand the chill and damp down here?"

The ghost spread his hands innocently, and his grin grew wider. "If I could affect who sees me and who does not, Mr. Dursley, I can assure you that you would never have seen me, either. You can't lay this little difficulty of yours at my door. Besides," and here the ghost's voice went a little hard, "... you once promised to keep me, and my lab, a secret."

David blinked a little at that. "So I did," he said, so chastened that the ghost felt almost sorry for him. "Serves me right, I guess, then, that she can't see you. But I just-- wanted you to meet her."

He turned earnestly to the girl and said, "Rosie, look. Promise me you won't tell anyone else about this-- whether you think I'm hallucinating or really have a friend you can't see. Please? Promise?"

The girl was walking around the room, looking carefully at everything. The she nodded slowly. "I think there must be someone here-- you could never lay out supplies and ingredients so neatly as this. Ask your friend what he's preparing to brew here, would you?"

"Pepper-up," the ghost replied, a little surprised by how quick she had been with her observation and acceptance.

She nodded again as David relayed the reply to her. "Yes, I believe your friend must really exist-- you wouldn't have known that, either, from what's laid out here. You know, this would really be a good review for your final exam-- ask him if you could brew it under our supervision. Between the two of us, you might scrape an Owl in potions. And, Professor Ghost," she said, addressing the room at large, "if you agree, I can lay my hands on some fresher boomslang skin than this, and maybe some other items as well."

David looked hopefully at the ghost, who slowly nodded. David's face broke into a wide smile and the ghost could not help grinning crookedly back. The boy relayed the ghost's acceptance to Rosie, who nodded as if she'd expected nothing less.

As the girl began to lecture David on the theory and practice of brewing pepper-up potion, the ghost murmured in his ear, "Mr. Dursley? I must say, I do like this girlfriend of yours."

* * *

"Do you think you liked Quidditch, when you were alive?"

The ghost thought for a moment. "I seem to have a rather terrifying memory of officiating a game. So I must have had at least a passing competence at the sport at some point."

"You can't remember anything else about it?"

"I believe I used to have a friendly rivalry with someone over it. A colleague, perhaps. Why do you ask?"

"I made my House Quidditch team yesterday. Keeper."

"Congratulations," the ghost said, a trifle stiffly. Something about Quidditch was tugging at him uncomfortably now. To cover it, he added, "Perhaps a few bludgers to the head will improve your Potions marks."

"Couldn't hurt them," David grinned, glancing up from recopying an essay for the class in question. Then his eyes narrowed. He said casually, "You taught Potions, didn't you? Back when you were alive?"

"I really don't remember," the ghost replied, but he got a sudden flash of steam rising from a room full of cauldrons, and the stomach-clenching anxiety, trying to see everything at once without appearing in the least concerned with any of it. Projecting calm, hiding behind it. He pushed the thought away.

"I've said before, I have no desire to uncover who or what I was. That life is over, and I'm sure it's no loss."

The boy gazed at him sadly for a moment longer, then turned back to his work. "If you say so, Sir."


	7. Another Life

**Part 7 - Another Life**

Not long after this conversation, the ghost began feeling increasingly unsettled. He tried to escape into the drifting peace, but he found himself unable to attain that lovely, careless state. He found himself staring more and more into the dusty old mirror, seeing the green-eyed woman, the strange boy, the old man.

But now he saw new scenes. Memories he knew were not his own.

One night, he saw a wizarding house in the mirror, two sets of knitting needles clicking away in a corner, a broom scratching across the kitchen floor, sweeping during those last minutes before dawn, before the household came down to track more dirt across the floor. A small boy sat at the kitchen table staring into a glass of milk, tracing the scratches in the heavy wooden table idly with his finger. A familiar-looking man with dark, untidy hair appeared in the doorway behind the boy.

"Couldn't sleep?"

The boy started, then relaxed as he saw the man. "No, Sir."

The man pulled out a chair and sat by the boy, looking at him kindly. After a moment, he said, "I remember when I first found out about this world. It was a feeling-- I can't describe it. I was so relieved I wasn't strange, you know. But I also remember how it was, wondering if I would ever fit in."

"I like Al and Lily and James," the boy offered. "But I feel so dumb. I'll never know half what they do."

"Your dad tells me you like to read," the man said.

"Yeah?" the boy said dubiously, still tracing scratches on the table.

"Well, my best friend from school was just like you, only she didn't find out this world even existed until she got her Hogwarts letter. You know what she did?"

That captured his attention. The boy shook his head, eyes wide.

"She read everything she could get her hands on. She knew more about the wizarding world by the time she got on the Hogwarts Express, than most of the kids who'd grown up in that world. You know who she was?"

The boy shook his head again.

"Aunt Hermione."

"No way. Really?"

"Yes, way," the man replied. "And I'll bet you a new broom that if you ask her, she'll set you up with all kinds of stuff even her own kids don't know."

The boy brightened. The ghost recognized the little boy, then. It was his young friend, Mr. Dursley. Much younger, obviously just finding out about the wizarding world. Something about his expression, eyes wide with wonder, yet unsure, reminded him of someone. But he could not bring to mind who it had been.

The scene faded, and he saw the boy again, a little older, fidgeting uncomfortably on a hideous chair in a floral-patterned sitting room. A heavy, unpleasant man was pacing, saying something to the boy, but it was the woman in the rocking chair who caught his eye. Her hair was shot through now with grey, but he thought he almost recognized the thin, bony features, the hard set of the mouth. She spoke.

"I don't know what Dudders means, making us go to _their_ house for Christmas day. I can't imagine why Lisa goes along with it. I thought she was more sensible."

The man snorted. "You know Dudley. Ever since he married that girl, he's been all about getting along with people, no matter how freakish they are. I bet she's the real reason the boy here is..."

"Vernon!" the woman burst out warningly. The man stopped and met her eyes, then seemed to recollect himself.

"Yes, well," he said, glancing at the boy. "Sorry, Davey. Just you remember, if you ever get up to any trouble from your, er, condition, we love you. We'll help you, if you want to try to get away from all that."

The boy was spared having to formulate a reply as the fireplace flared to life and the familiar dark-haired man stepped though. "Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon," he said, coolly, as if he often dealt with unpleasant people in his profession. His eyes warmed as he caught sight of the boy. "Hey, Davey. You ready?"

"Oh yes, Sir," he replied fervently, jumping to his feet.

"Great. Here, you take Grandmum through first. You remember how we do it?"

"Yeah. And Dad'll be there, in case I trip, right?"

The man grinned and gave him a quick wink at the woman's strangled gasp. "He sure is. You'll do great." David and the woman disappeared into the flames and the man's grin faded as he turned hard eyes on the other man.

"I'm warning you now, _Uncle_. You are about to be a guest in my home. I would never treat you or yours like you treated me. But I will not tolerate abuse of my family. Any part of it. Including Davey. You keep your poisonous opinions about magic to yourself, all right? It's part of who he is, and he is a great kid, magic or not."

The other man flinched a little at the word "magic," but he nodded, looking fearfully at the strong young man who held his eyes in a steely gaze. "All right," he replied.

The ghost did not know what to make of these visions, so much more detailed than any he had seen before. But something about them awakened a kind of hunger in him. He was seeing life, and for the first time in he could not remember when, he found himself longing to be more than he was. He could not, of course. So he sought out the mirror more and more and gazed into it, drinking in the scenes from his young friend's life. Remembering.


	8. A Sudden Illness

**Part 8 - A Sudden Illness**

_Thanks to ladyclover, rainkatt and emmessann for fantastic beta work. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own. Also, this section forward owes much to the glimpses of these characters as adults shown in the works of mistful (Especially "Drop Dead Gorgeous" of all things) and LizBee's Girl Most Likely. I'm new to the fandom, new enough to be able to trace how I made the shift to seeing these kids as more than my age, and these two authors are a lot responsible. Thanks to them both._

* * *

Then one night, the boy did not appear as expected. The ghost worked for a while alone, as he did on the many nights the boy did not appear. But something about tonight was different, and as he worked the ghost became increasingly unsettled. Unsettled enough that he finally ventured into the world above, careful to avoid other ghosts or anyone who might catch sight of him, to seek the boy out.

He found the boy lying in a bed in the hospital wing, very pale, unconscious, his breathing labored. The girl, Rose, was sitting on the arm of chair pulled up beside the bed, holding his hand, while another woman sat in the chair itself, sometimes looking up from the book in her lap to stroke the girl's hair comfortingly. The girl's mother, he rather thought-- the family resemblance was uncanny. The solemn vigil at the bedside did a good deal more than unsettle him. This was serious. He drifted closer and listened to the murmured conversation.

"Let's go back a bit," the older woman was saying. "You think he's been having nightmares? What makes you think so?"

"He always used to tell me about his dreams. We used to argue about them, because he thinks they might be Seer dreams and, well, you know that's all rubbish. He likes to tell me about them, so he can claim he saw the future if they come true."

"But he hasn't been doing that lately?"

"No. He's just been very tired, not at all himself."

"All right. That's good to know." The woman made a note on the parchment in her lap. "When did you first notice a change?"

"He's really been a bit quiet since we came back to school this year. He didn't say more than a dozen words to me on the train. And he's kind of been keeping to himself, this year." She seemed about to say more, but then she glanced over at her friend's face and stopped herself. The ghost wondered if she had been about to reveal something about him, despite her promise. But surely, he couldn't have anything to do with this?

The girl's mother sighed and turned back to her book. "Well, sometimes boys get up to mischief all on their own. It's possible he's gotten into some Dark Magic-- you say he's been reading more, too?"

Rose nodded. "But not anything like that, that I know of. I'm sure I would have seen something like that. But when I asked what he was reading, or if I could help, he just told me it was private. I thought maybe he just, you know, didn't want to be friends anymore, or something."

The ghost read a great deal more into her downcast expression than it appeared the mother did-- the girl clearly was worried David had fallen out of love with her. He wished he could tell her that they had talked of her at some length just last week-- well, David had talked, and that, as far as the ghost could tell, the boy's affections were unchanged.

But she could not see him, and that was just as well. He himself was realizing now that there had been a change in the boy since he'd returned from the summer holidays. Quieter, less likely to talk, even though he came to their lab to study almost every night. He had been there last night, in fact. The ghost wondered now why he had not asked his young friend about the dark circles under his eyes, if he had been sleeping well, if something were troubling him. It seemed so obvious in retrospect.

The door opened and a familiar-looking man burst through, a little out of breath. The ghost had seen this man frequently-- as a boy, and more recently as David's "Uncle Harry" in the mirror. His dark brown robes were rumpled, and his tie had been loosened unevenly around his neck, his collar unbuttoned. He looked very tired, and worried. "I came as soon as I could," he said. "Ron'll be here soon, too. He's bringing a couple of others from the office-- whoever Shacklebolt says we can spare just now. You really think this looks like Dark Magic poisoning?"

"Well, Rose says she hasn't noticed him studying anything untoward, but he's also become more secretive and been avoiding her. His Head of House is away, but I've got Neville looking through Davey's room with a couple of prefects-- he said he'd call us if he found anything-- and yes, Harry, I told him-- they won't touch anything they find until you get there. It just couldn't wait."

"Yeah, I know." The ghost watched as Harry came over and gave the girl a peck on the cheek and the woman a hug she stood to return. Then the ghost's eyes followed the man's down to the boy lying so still on the bed. The raspy breathing was painful for the ghost to listen to.

"He doesn't look anything like his dad," Harry said, in a lost sort of voice.

The woman was still standing by him, and her arm tightened around him comfortingly as he looked down, clearly struggling with his emotions.

"Dudley's gonna kill me, Hermione. He's been so great about letting Davey be in this world-- my world. If we can't figure out what's causing this..."

"We will figure it out, Harry. That's why I'm here, after all." She nudged him, and the ghost sensed she was trying to comfort him as she went on, mock sternly, "Are you trying to say you don't think I'm the best researcher St. Mungo's has ever had?"

"'Course not. Merlin forbid." A slight smile twitched at his lips, as if this were an old joke between them.

The woman released him and returned to her book and notes. "I think we have him stabilized for now. And I think I'm getting some good leads from this book. All I need is a little time. And more information. Have you contacted Lisa and Dudley yet?"

Harry shook his head. "Didn't want to upset them until I could get out to see for myself. I'll send Ginny an owl and have her go over in the morning. Think we'll have to transfer him to St. Mungo's? Lisa's parents live near there in London, so they could be close."

"I'm kind of afraid to move him, really. Dark Magic has so many insidious little triggers-- moving him might set one off. But then again, leaving him where something can maintain whatever hold it has on him-- I don't know, Harry. I'd rather not move him without knowing more."

The ghost listened with growing alarm. He tried to think of anything he knew that might be helpful. He remembered the boy had left his book bag in the lab last night when he left, tired and preoccupied. But the ghost was at something of a loss how he might get someone down there to look without revealing his own presence, assuming these people could see him any better than the girl could. Still-- the man was an Auror, was he not? So he should investigate strange noises...

The occupants of the room jumped as the ghost banged open the door and hid behind it. A few moments later, after Harry had peered cautiously out into the hallway, the sound of plate mail could be heard crashing down the stone steps of the nearby stairwell. Looking back from his vandalism, the ghost noted approvingly that Harry was out the door with his wand drawn and ready in an instant.

The ghost flitted into the shadows of the stairwell, staying well ahead of the Auror as he left a trail of noisy destruction in his wake. He vanished into the deepest shadows of his lab just as the man entered at a dead run, his wand aloft and blazing with an unusually intense light.

The man stopped then and took careful stock of his situation. The ghost had mentally deducted a few points from his estimation of the man's skill for the headlong dash into the room, but now he grudgingly had to give a few back as he watched the Auror examine everything in the room with keen, intelligent eyes.

The man saw the boy's book bag next to a table, the glass and wires on one worktable, the empty cauldron on another. With a final look around, he picked up the bag and tucked it under his arm. He left the room, muttering something under his breath about what he was going to do to a "Peeves" if he'd been responsible for leading him on a wild goose chase, whatever that was. After a moment, the ghost silently followed.

* * *

When Harry got back to the upper levels, he ran into Ron and a couple of other Aurors. "Hey guys."

"Heya, Harry," Ron said. "Just got done checking in with the Headmaster. Here, you might need this," he added, handing over a scroll giving its bearer the headmaster's blessing to conduct whatever business was necessary in his school, and not otherwise commenting on Harry's lapse in not picking his up immediately on his arrival. Instead, his partner looked at the bag under his arm and asked, "What's that?"

"I think it's Davey's book bag. I found it in some dungeons down lower even than where the potions classroom used to be."

"Weird. I didn't know there were lower levels than old Snape's classroom," Ron said. "Want us to go back down and do a full sweep?"

"Yeah, would you mind? I want to get this back up to Hermione, see if there's anything in here that might help. You might also want to try to corner Peeves-- I think he's the one who made such a racket and led me down there. See if he knows anything. He's always liked you more than me."

"Right." Ron rolled his eyes. It wasn't the first time over the years they'd had cause to investigate at Hogwarts, and Harry knew the poltergeist just about worshiped any member of the Weasley family, thanks to the exploits of Fred and George. It made Ron really uncomfortable. Usually, Harry thought it was funny. But not today. Ron was turning away saying, "Yeah. We'll be up later, then. C'mon you two, let's go see what Harry's missed this time."

Harry shook his head at the jibe and continued on to the hospital wing. As he'd expected, Hermione relieved him of the bag at once, all the while berating him for going off alone.

"Honestly, Harry, you seem to think nothing can happen to you. When are you going to learn to take better care of yourself? One of these days your recklessness is going to get you killed-- and you'll _stay_ dead, this time. For Merlin's sake..."

"Ron's here," Harry cut in, as he always did, before Hermione could get too wound up. "He and a couple of other Aurors are doing a sweep, down where I found this. Did you know there are lower dungeons than where we had potions classes?"

"Of course, Harry. Unlike some people, I actually have read Hogwarts, A History."

"All right, Ms. I-revised-it-to-add-another-zillion-boring-pages," Harry said, rolling his eyes. He watched while she began laying the bag's contents out on a nearby bed, more neatly and methodically than he would have managed.

"Yes, the part about you is particularly yawn-worthy," she replied, still sorting through the debris of quills and parchment scraps at the bottom of the bag, none of which looked remotely remarkable to Harry. "Speaking of which, when's the last time you slept, Harry?"

"Um. Well, it's been kinda busy at the office lately..."

Hermione paused to fix him with _that look_. "Harry. My husband is an Auror. And your partner. He's been home every night this week."

"It's just a little insomnia, all right? C'mon Hermione, do you see anything in Davey's bag or not?"

"Other than a copy of my much-maligned book? No, not really," Hermione's brow was furrowed in the worried expression Harry remembered so well from his school days. Rose was sorting through the items on the bed, her face almost a copy of her mum's.

"I don't see anything strange here, either," the girl admitted. "Where did you say you found this, Uncle Harry?"

"Oh-- there's a lab in the very lowest level of the dungeons..."

Rose seemed about to speak when the boy on the bed twitched and moaned. "Professor Snape, please. Help me. Don't..."

Harry and Hermione traded a stunned glance. Hermione rose and touched the boy's flushed cheek, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Harry," she said slowly, "Why would Davey be calling out for Professor Snape?"

A motion in the doorway caught Harry's eye then, and he saw a dark shadow coalescing there. He would have recognized the figure anywhere.

"Perhaps because he's here, Hermione."


	9. Spectres of the Past

**Part 9 - Spectres of the Past**

_Thanks to ladyclover, rainkatt and emmessann for fantastic beta work. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own. Also I have been quite remiss in not recognizing the Listening Beta Extraordinaire, Wee Hob (my son, aged 12). He listened patiently while I read all this stuff aloud to him, some sections in multiple versions, and between his comments and questions, and my own hearing some of the really stupid things I was saying, a lot of literary tragedies were averted._

* * *

Hermione turned to see what Harry was staring at in the doorway, and he heard her sharp intake of breath. "Professor? Is that you?" she whispered.

Snape looked-- frightened, Harry thought. It was a lost, vulnerable expression he had never seen on the man's face in life. Harry stepped forward slowly and raised his hand reassuringly, hoping the ghost would not bolt. His track record, chasing ghosts, was not stellar. "Professor. It's, um... It's been a long time, Sir."

The ghost eyed him warily. At length he replied, in cold, disdainful tones, "I had rather hoped I was the shade of some long-dead builder of this castle. But I take it that you know who I was."

"And you don't, Sir?" Harry was puzzled as he said it-- he had never heard of a ghost having amnesia before. But then he remembered how Snape had died. Memories pouring out of him, like blood. Yeah. Maybe it was little wonder, then.

"No. Nor do I wish to find out. I merely..." He paused, looked at David, lying so still now on the bed. An odd expression flitted across his pale features. "What is the matter with this boy?"

"We aren't sure," Hermione replied. "What do you know, Sir? Do you know David?"

Rose was looking at Snape with a kind of dawning understanding. "You're Davey's friend. Professor Ghost. Aren't you?" The ghost looked at her almost kindly and inclined his head.

"Rose," her mother's voice was deceptively mild, "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"Do not blame your daughter, Madam," Snape said. "She made a promise, and I believe she was just about to break it when I revealed myself, were you not, child?"

Rose nodded. Hermione frowned as she looked from one to the other. "A promise? To keep you secret? Why? And what has David to do with this?"

"You led Uncle Harry to your laboratory just now, didn't you?" Rose said. Again, Snape nodded.

She turned to her mother and explained, "Davey took me down there several times last term. He said he'd met a ghost who was very shy. Who helped him his first day here, when he got lost. And then, well, Davey ran across him again last year looking for a place to study when-- um, when-- we weren't getting along so well."

She looked a little embarrassed and pressed on quickly, "I couldn't see the ghost. But between the two of us we tutored Davey in potions. And they both -- well Davey asked me, from the ghost-- they made me promise not to tell. Davey seemed-- quite fond of you, Sir," she said, turning to the ghost at the last.

Now Snape looked a trifle embarrassed himself. "He is not as ... annoying as others of his age," he admitted grudgingly.

Harry was looking on at all this in stunned bewilderment. Snape had never, to his knowledge, liked a kid, not since he'd been one himself. It was kind of like the earth had started spinning the opposite way on its axis or something. He was relieved to hear Ron's deep voice begin his customary report from the door, and amused to hear it go outraged about halfway through.

"Harry, we've finished our sweep of the lower dungeons; other than that one you pointed out, there doesn't-- Bloody Hell! Snape? What's he doin' here?"

"That, Ronald, is what we were trying to find out," his wife said patiently. Ron lowered his wand a fraction.

Harry decided introductions were in order. "Professor Snape, this is my partner, Ron Weasley, his wife Hermione, and I believe you know Rose." He took a deep breath, then continued, "And I'm Harry, Sir. Harry Potter."

Snape showed no recognition of the names. "Wonderful. I assume you were once my students, and that you hated me beyond all reason. Very well, then. Can we please return to the matter at hand? I believe, Madam Weasley, you were speculating about Dark Magic poisoning before I appeared? I find it highly unlikely this boy has been dabbling in anything Dark. But there are several types of poisoning, if memory serves, caused by directed curses, or objects..."

"I thought you had no memory," Hermione interrupted. The Potions Master gave her a pitying look, as if she were a particularly dull-witted child.

"I have no memory of my life, or of the time before," he corrected. "My basic sum of factual knowledge, however, appears to be undiminished. And I have done some reading in many areas of interest, since making the acquaintance of young Mr. Dursley again last year. He has brought me a number of journals and books..."

"Any on Dark Magic, by chance?" Ron asked pointedly.

"No, but I do seem to recall quite a number of _fascinating_ facts on that subject," Snape drawled, keeping his temper, though Harry could tell it was by sheer force of will. "If you would be so kind as to tell me what you are considering, I may be able to help you rule a few possibilities out. Or brew an antidote, if it comes to it."

"Excuse me, but in case you haven't noticed, _Professor_, you are a suspect in an Auror's investigation..."

At this point, Harry laid a hand on Ron's arm in that warning gesture they'd worked out years ago, when his partner's hot head was about to get them both into trouble. Again. Ron subsided, still glaring suspiciously at the ghost.

"Ron, could I have a word, please?" Harry drew him off to the side of the room, well aware that Snape's eyes were boring into the back of his skull.

"Harry, if you ask me, we should lock him up now and..."

"Ron. He's a Ghost. A Hogwarts Ghost. Even if he doesn't remember it at the moment. You know they have all kinds of special rights. We can't just 'lock him up.' It'll take us days just to fill out the paperwork to start the binding rituals. If the Wizengamot even grants the warrant."

"I hate when you're right," Ron grumbled.

"Besides," Harry glanced back and found Snape looking once again with concern towards his young cousin. "I think he may be connected to this somehow..."

"Really? It's so _amazing_ how you figure these things out, Harry--"

"Shut up, Ron. I also think he may not know that yet, either. He seems to genuinely care for Davey, and he wants to help. Let's keep him close, see where he leads us. He might actually be useful."

Ron's agreement was grudging at best, but Harry was willing to settle for it. He turned back to the ghost.

"All right, Professor. We need to know everything you know about Davey, and fast. At the moment, you're the only lead we've got, the only thing out-of-the-ordinary about his life here at Hogwarts. We think..." Harry's voice caught a little. "We think he's dying, Professor."

The ghost studied the boy on the bed. "All right," he said at last. "I'll need a Pensieve."


	10. The Pensieve

**Part 10 - The Pensieve**

Neville and one of the Hufflepuff prefects arrived then and Hermione sent them after a pensieve. Ron glared at Snape, gave Harry the nod that meant _I'll take this one_ and accompanied them. Harry could hear his questions about Davey's room begin before the door had quite closed behind them.

Harry stood by the window and looked out over the moonlit lake and grounds below and tried to stifle a yawn. It was getting late, and Harry remembered he hadn't been to bed for -- this would be the third night in a row, now. He hadn't sleeping well for quite some time, in fact. He couldn't remember the content of the nightmares that kept waking him, but something about them was so chilling that he was finding it difficult to bring himself to lie down at all.

Glancing back, he saw Snape had his dark eyes fixed on Davey's face. The ghost gave brief, but not unkind answers when Rose or Hermione tried to engage him in conversation. Harry tried to remember if he had ever seen a look so unguarded and concerned on that face before. Probably not. Harry shook his head and stifled another yawn.

Neville and Ron returned carrying a rather large pensieve between them. "Wow, where'd you find that?" Harry asked.

"I've had one for years, Harry," Neville replied, helping Ron place it carefully in the center of a bed by the open window. "It doesn't completely counteract the memory charms they used on me when I was little, but it really helps. Wish I'd had one while I was still a student."

Memory charms. Harry had studied that, his first year of Auror training. How they had tried to erase the memories of his parents' torture from the traumatized toddler, only to leave his memory functions damaged nearly beyond repair. Harry felt a deep sadness for his old friend. He heard, as from a distance, Ron and Neville joking about Neville's abysmal memory-- the rememberal his Grandmother had sent him their first year, his grade on one of their history exams.

"I didn't know there was a lower grade than Troll," Ron said.

"There isn't. Binns made it up. Quite a sense of humor, when you get to know him. And, you know, you're not 12. Besides, I think you got a D minus on that one yourself, didn't you?"

Unable to bring himself to join in their lighthearted banter, and with fatigue really beginning to grind him down, Harry found his eyes drawn to the pensieve itself. Everything around him seemed to fade as he gazed into it. The liquid in the basin caught the moonlight in mesmerizing flickers. It wasn't until he lost his balance leaning toward it, and Ron caught him as he stumbled that Harry was roused from his near stupor. Even then, he had to blink a couple of times to pick up the thread of his old schoolmates' conversation.

"Of course I'll stay," Neville was saying. He was also looking at Snape nervously. As Harry gathered his exhaustion-muddled thoughts, it struck him as funny that while Neville had been a professor at Hogwarts for over a decade, and had built a reputation as a highly respected Herbologist, the sight of the Potions Master could still send him right back to his school days. Harry could relate. He also couldn't imagine what it must have been like, that last year at Hogwarts, with Snape as headmaster. He swayed a little on his feet and Ron frowned at him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," Harry replied. He took a deep cleansing breath and focused his mind. "We're ready here. If you are, Sir." Harry gave the honorific automatically, a habit from years of dealing with the public. It seemed odd, but in a lot of ways, this Snape was as much a stranger to himself as to any of them. It made it easier, somehow. Harry watched the ghost of his old Potions Master draw near reluctantly, a kind of grim courage on his face. Harry could tell, he really did not want to do this. Losing the last bit of yourself this way, even temporarily-- what must that be like?

Ron returned to Harry's side after a quick, whispered conversation with his wife and what had looked like a couple of stern words with his daughter. The two Aurors watched as the ghost drew a shimmering wand from the inner pocket of his robes and began to pull what few memories remained to him from his temple.

As the ghost deposited the glowing strands into the Pensieve, Ron leaned toward him a little. "You sure this is gonna work, Mate?"

"It's all we've got."

"Yeah. You're right," Ron admitted. Harry watched his partner reach out and put an arm around Hermione as she joined them, an easy, affectionate gesture. Rose was watching avidly from her place at David's side, no doubt memorizing everything for her own experiments later. His own kids were smart, but he breathed again a sigh of thanks that Rosie was only his niece. He loved her dearly, but the girl was entirely too intelligent for her own good. Much as her mother had been.

The ghost pulled the last strand from his mind and turned impassive eyes on Harry. "There. Are you ready?"

Harry hesitated. He found himself remembering another pensieve, long ago. The day when he had intruded into this man's memories as a boy, looking into his unattended pensieve. His cheeks burned again with the shame of that violation.

But this time was different. Snape was inviting him in. And David needed him. He nodded and stepped resolutely toward the pensieve, then found Ron and Hermione stepping forward as well. He looked blankly at them.

"Well, you don't think we're letting you go alone, do you?" Ron said. "What, you think just because we're back at Hogwarts, you can chuck all that Auror procedure rot right out the window?"

That was exactly what Harry had thought, but to cover it he said quickly, "Um... Hermione's not an Auror, Ron."

Ron looked a little sheepish, but at a stern glance from his wife he said, "Yeah, but she's the medical expert. We need her along to make sure we don't miss anything. It'll be like old times, Mate."

"May I go, too?" Rose asked, with the air of one who knew the answer, but could not help herself. Neville, pulling up a chair next to hers, tried to stifle a grin.

"No." The response came simultaneously from both parents, Harry, and... Snape. Harry just stared at the ghost. Snape looked uncomfortable, but not repentant.

"A pensieve is much too dangerous for a child," he said, daring Harry to contradict him.

Harry thought of all the terribly dangerous things he and his friends had done as children, mostly unhindered by the adults who should have been protecting them. But he also recalled one adult, who had been more a hindrance than the others. This man, hateful and sarcastic as he had been. "Yeah," Harry agreed aloud. He turned to Ron and Hermione. "All right, then. Let's go."

* * *

At the bottom of the pensieve, Harry found himself standing beside one ghost, watching as another confronted his small cousin in a deserted corridor. "What are you doing here?" he hissed, as Ron and Hermione glanced over in surprise.

The ghost shrugged. "I was curious." But his eyes were fixed intently on the scene, dark, glittering eyes that had once been a spy's. Eyes that missed nothing. Harry and the others turned back to watch the scene play out, then the other memories of the ghost's dealings with David.

When they got to the memory where David had first introduced Rose to Snape, Ron made a strangled noise, and Hermione laid a warning hand on her husband's arm. He subsided, but Harry could tell that a very heated father-daughter talk was in his niece's future.

When they got to the images of David's past in the Mirror, Harry gave a startled gasp. "Hermione, this might be it. That mirror. It shouldn't be showing him anything like that. It only shows what you desire most." He turned accusingly to the ghost. "Why would you want Davey's memories?"

Snape looked quite taken aback. "But I don't-- I have never been able to control what this mirror shows me. And I have never desired anything I saw in its glass." But as he said it, Harry noticed he did not look any of them in the eye. And the expression on the face of the memory ghost gazing raptly into the glass was... hungry. Something about the scenes in the glass called out to him, just as they had to Harry years ago, when he had looked on the faces of his parents for the first time. When he had felt connected to... a family.

Ron asked, "You say this mirror-- it's locked up? You've never shown it to Davey, or talked to him about it?"

"Never." This time ghost's reply was emphatic, and he met Ron's suspicious glare unflinchingly.

Hermione was still watching the scene closely. "But they're not just Davey's memories, Harry-- look there. David's left, but you and Vernon are still there."

Harry felt a chill run through his veins. "David's the focal point, but-- some of these are my memories. Aren't they?"

The ghost was gaping at him now in open horror. "No," he whispered. "I cannot be causing this. I do not desire anything. Nor would I harm a student. Especially that boy. I would not."

Hermione looked at Harry and Ron. "We need to find somebody who knows more about this Mirror," she said quietly. "I think I know someone who can help us."


	11. The Headmaster's Portrait

**Part 11 - The Headmaster's Portrait**

When they emerged from the pensieve, Harry watched the ghost drift away from the basin as if stunned. For a moment, he thought Snape might continue on out the door. He'd seen living men look that way, overcome with the horror of some crime they'd never intended to commit. Men who wanted nothing more than to hide from everything they'd done, everything they felt.

But then the ghost's eyes came to rest on the boy, so desperately ill, and the sight stopped him. Snape stood for a moment at the bedside and seemed to regain his composure. "You said you knew someone who could assist us, Madam Weasley," he said, in his perfectly even, controlled voice. "Who might that be?"

Harry knew the answer to that. Of course. Then he was in motion out the door, not waiting to see who would follow him. Hermione caught up to him about halfway down the corridor.

"Harry, you can't just go barging into the Headmaster's office at this hour..."

"This can't wait, Hermione," Harry replied, not even breaking stride. "Besides, it's not the current Headmaster I need to see. It's one of his predecessors."

"Dumbledore?" Ron asked, scrambling to catch up. "Oh, yeah. He used the mirror our First Year, to guard the Stone. But-- then, it can't be Dark Magic, can it? He would never have left something like that in the school."

Harry's face was very grim. "He might have. If he thought it was safer here than anywhere else. It's behind a sealed door, after all." They came to a halt at the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office.

"Yes, but do you know the password, Harry?" Hermione asked reasonably.

"Er, no," Harry admitted.

The ghost had been drifting easily with them, listening. He spoke then, almost as if to himself. "We don't need one." Harry looked at him in surprise. Snape took no notice, seemingly focused on dim memories of a past life.

"Why would we not need one?" Ron demanded.

Snape strode forward smoothly, robes billowing as they had in life, moving his hand in a curiously erratic gesture. The gargoyle leaped aside and the ghost placed his foot on the first rising step of the stone escalator, as if he had done the same thing a thousand times before. Only then did he glance back at his companions, looking as shocked as they. Without a word, Harry and his friends joined their old professor on the stone stair.

The door to the Headmaster's office sprang open at their approach when the ghost made another careless motion with his hand. Candles and lamps flared to life all over the room-- on the desk, in the many wall sconces. Wandless magic. Harry recognized it now. "You used to do this, didn't you? When you were Headmaster?"

The ghost looked stunned. "I-- was Headmaster?"

"Yes, indeed," a rich quiet voice said from the wall. "In Hogwart's darkest hour, when all believed you to be in league with the forces of evil, you kept the students safe and aided the Light. Well done, my Boy."

Something flickered in the ghost's eye-- did he recognize Dumbledore? Or was he just shocked by the portrait's words? Harry wasn't sure.

"Professor Dumbledore! It's so good to see you," Hermione was saying, with slightly forced cheer.

"And you, my dear. But something in your expressions tells me this is not a social call. Though I am particularly delighted to see you again, Severus. How may I assist you?"

Harry stepped forward. He always felt awkward, conversing with this thing that both was, and was not, his old Headmaster. It could echo old words and sentiments, but the man was long dead, and sometimes that knowledge made the dim revenant all the more difficult to bear.

"We need to know about the Mirror of Erised, Professor. We think it's doing something to one of the students. My cousin's son, Davey."

The portrait looked grave at that. "Oh my. The Mirror is very powerful and dangerous. That is why I had it sealed up in the dungeons. No one should have been able to get past the wards I placed on that door."

Harry glanced over at Snape, who was looking at the portrait rather as if he were seeing a ghost. "Well, Sir, someone did."

"Severus? You?"

The ghost looked confused. Harry said, "Professor Snape has apparently lost most of his memories, including his name. But, yes. He showed us some recent memories of himself looking into that mirror."

The portrait frowned. "But it should not show a ghost anything at all."

"How does the Mirror work, Sir?"

"It feeds on the desires of the living. By showing someone the thing his heart most desires, it keeps the victim, if you will, returning to it again and again, and ensures that new victims will always be easily ensnared. That is why, Harry, I took such pains to remove the Mirror, after I found you had discovered it, and why I locked it away after it was no longer needed to guard the Stone."

"But Snape isn't alive," Ron objected.

"And the scenes weren't like what I saw," Harry added. "I always saw the same thing-- my Mum and Dad, and all my family. But Professor Snape saw things that really have happened-- lots of different things. And they all seem to center around Davey."

"Yes, but they're not just Davey's memories, and they can't be Professor Snape's," Hermione said. "They all happened long after he was dead. In fact, they all seem to also be _your_ memories, Harry."

"But-- how would I be connected to Snape's ghost?" Harry asked, genuinely puzzled.

Snape spoke up then, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "I believe I can shed some light on this mystery. I have seen other visions in the mirror. People. You, Mister Potter, at various ages of childhood. You, Sir," he nodded toward the portrait. "And a woman I have not yet seen among the living. A woman with red hair and green eyes. A woman I believe is related in some way to Mister Potter."

"Mum," Harry breathed.

The portrait turned to the ghost, eyes brimming with sadness. "Oh, Severus. I am so sorry. If I could have foreseen this, I would have disposed of that Mirror in another manner entirely."

"What do you mean, Professor?" Hermione asked.

"I mean that this Mirror has somehow reached beyond Severus to Harry, and to his young friend David. Perhaps because both have a connection to him, and to each other." The portrait looked hard at Snape. "That boy is your friend, isn't he?" Snape nodded, eyes fixed on the stone floor, worn smooth with years of student fidgeting.

"And you, Harry. You were with Severus when he died."

"Yes," Harry breathed, the memory of those last awful words, of the light leaving those dark eyes as near as if the events had happened yesterday.

"Professor Snape's memories were just pouring out him," Hermione said. "I conjured a flask for Harry, so he could collect them, when Professor Snape begged him to take them."

The portrait turned severe blue eyes on him then. "And what became of those memories, Harry?"


	12. Choices

**Part 12 - Choices**

"I just-- I didn't want to leave them lying around where anybody might stumble across them. Wouldn't, um, be the first time that's happened. So-- I took them. Into myself."

"Harry!" Hermione gasped. "Are you crazy? That was terribly dangerous!"

Harry looked away, but said defensively, "They've saved me quite a few times. Knowing counter-curses I didn't know I knew. And-- they're the only memories I have of my Mum. I just wanted-- I've kept them safe."

"So, do you have... you know, all Snape's memories?" Ron sounded horrified.

Harry thought about how to answer that. Finally he said, "I have some clear memories of the things I saw that night in the pensieve-- about my mum, and the things Professor Dumbledore wanted him to make sure I knew before I faced Voldemort. Everything else is really... hazy."

Dumbledore's portrait looked at Harry over his painted spectacles much as his model had in life, when he'd suspected Harry was not telling him everything. The expression on his old Potion Master's face was also familiar-- a disbelieving sneer. To Harry's relief, neither one challenged his story openly. And Ron and Hermione looked too shocked to question it.

"Ah. This is quite unforeseen," the portrait said. "Harry, the Mirror feeds on the desires of the living. It would seem that your taking these memories into yourself has kept part of Severus alive inside you all these years. While he shunned the living and had no contact with them, this posed no difficulty. But something has kindled a spark in him again, now-- his friendship with your young cousin."

"So what do we do?"

"You shall have to restore Severus' memories to him. Once they reside in his dead soul instead of your living one, the connection between you and the mirror and the boy should be broken."

Harry thought for a minute. "But I've tried, over the years, to pull those memories back out, into a Pensieve. You know, to really be able to see my Mum again, not just in the memory of it. I've never been able to do it. It's like, those patterns aren't really mine, but they've entwined around memories and thoughts that are mine. I can't separate them out anymore."

"They cannot be restored as they were removed, not now. You both must consent to the transfer, and it may be quite painful. You will probably want to anchor each other for it-- I believe you, Severus, are able to manifest as a solid form, when you wish? Yes, then. An embrace, I think, would be best. The memories will then flow back where they truly belong." The old man cocked his head as if listening, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Then he added, "But you had better do this soon. I fear the boy does not have much time at all."

At that moment, the ghost vanished from sight. Harry traded a helpless look with his friends and the image of Dumbledore looking on sadly from the wall.

"That, I'm afraid, is not so unforeseen," Dumbledore said.

"Dirty, rotten coward," Ron spat.

"No," Harry said. "Think about it, Ron. He's seen stuff that makes all our nightmares look tame. I wouldn't want that back, either."

"And without his memories, he's missing the part of him that found the courage to bear all those horrible experiences, at the time and later, in his memories," Dumbledore added gently. "Do not judge him too harshly, my children. He is little more than a child himself, at the moment."

"But how're we gonna find him now?" Ron fumed.

"Look, you two go back to Davey. I'll find Snape. It'll be okay."

Ron looked as if he might argue, as he so often did, but Hermione touched his arm and said, "All right, Harry. Good luck." She hugged him close, and Ron clapped him bracingly on the shoulder. Then, they were gone.

Harry stood there a long moment in the silence, gathering his thoughts around him. He realized, looking at the wall, there was an empty frame next to Dumbledore's.

"That would have been his, wouldn't it, Sir?" he asked, pointing. Dumbledore nodded solemnly.

"Best headmaster Hogwarts ever had, and they never knew it. Poor boy. Do you know, he is the only headmaster ever to have had no students die on his watch? Oh, assuredly, many died in that final battle, but by then he himself was dead. School crawling with Death Eaters and those horrible Carrows, and somehow he kept them all alive. And neither side ever suspected a thing. I watched him through it all, and I still have no idea how he managed it."

"You've known about him, all these years, haven't you, Professor?"

"Yes, Harry. He never joined me here, you see. When he dies properly, he may. If he can bring himself to do so. It is very hard for him, you understand. He feels so many things, but he has no memory to help him make sense of any of it."

Harry felt a deep sadness for the man. "Isn't there some other way? To leave Snape in peace and still save David?"

"No, Harry. I wish there were. He has had a small respite, more than many are fortunate enough to receive. But now, he has to make a choice. And so, for that matter, do you."

"Me, Sir? What choice do I have? I have to save Davey. I'm responsible for him."

"And you love him," the old man smiled kindly. "And Severus was once responsible for you."

"He never loved me, though," Harry replied, a little confused by the non-sequitur.

"No. I don't believe he was capable of it, by then. Too many old hurts and horrors, piled up year upon year. But without all of that in the way, he has always possessed an extraordinary capacity for love. And he does love your young cousin, in his way. Severus is an... honorable man. I think you have had a chance, over the years to come to understand him, much better than you think. Go to him, Harry. He is very frightened, with good reason. But only you can give him peace."

* * *

Harry found his way back to the dungeons easily enough. Now that he was conscious of a part of Snape's soul inside him, it was not hard to let that guide him. He stepped across the threshold of the lab and held his wand aloft to cast its light further through the darkness. He saw one of his cousin's globe lamps on a table and lit it, then turned his eyes to the ghost who was seated at another table, one strewn with bits of glass and metal and wire. Ghostly hands trembled as they busied themselves fitting the components of another such lamp together.

Without turning, the ghost growled, "Go away."

Harry came over instead and slid himself onto the stool at the work table across from his old professor. He reached casually for a wire filament, which he connected to its base with a tap of his wand, seemingly absorbed by the task. Then he spoke, keeping his voice light and casual.

"Davey's quite a kid, isn't he? My father-in-law adores him. He's been waiting all his life to find someone who understands Muggle technology and is as fascinated by it as he is."

Snape picked up a wire and threaded it through another bit of metal. "No, here," Harry said. "This way." He demonstrated with an identical wire and piece of metal. Snape looked, then copied the motion awkwardly.

"He's shown me that a hundred times," the ghost said finally. "I always get it backwards."

"Yeah. Kind of strange, isn't it, Sir? You were so precise as a potions brewer. Why is this more difficult?" The ghost stiffened at the mention of his past, but Harry continued to work steadily, not looking up.

At length the ghost responded, "I can still brew quite adequately. I believe it is a different set of skills. Knowing how ingredients fit into a potion, and how to prepare them, is quite different from knowing how these-- physical components-- fit together." After a pause, Snape added, "I suspect the one ability cancels out the other. The boy is rubbish at potions. I only continue to work at this to..."

Harry glanced up as the silence lengthened. "To what, Sir?"

The ghost reached for another piece of glass. "To give him no excuse for not trying. I am willing to practice at something I clearly am rubbish at, so that he will take heart and do the same."

"I did notice his potions marks had improved last term. He'll never be a Neville."

"Who?"

"Someone you taught, years ago. Melted a gross of cauldrons in a single term," he added, quoting what the ghost had told David in the memory.

The ghost's lips twitched in an almost smile, but then all expression left his face. "We haven't much time, have we?"

"No." Harry sensed that to push now would be disastrous, but it was hard for him to hold himself calm, to continue to assemble the lamp on the table before them as if nothing at all were the matter. But he saw the ghost struggling with himself, the tremors of its translucent hands becoming more pronounced.

"I do not believe I can... I never asked for any of this. I do not want that old life back."

"Yeah. I don't blame you," Harry told him honestly. "The memories I carry-- I know they're incomplete. Which means you must have some, under the surface. You lived through some terrible things, Professor."

"I caused them," the ghost corrected, bitterly.

"Perhaps. But until you take all your memories back, you can't know that for sure."

The ghost thrust the pieces in his hands away from him impatiently and burst out, "What is that boy to me? I never asked him..."

"To be your friend?" Harry's voice was gentle. The scenes with David in the mirror had reminded him of something, but it wasn't until that moment he figured out what. In a pensieve, years ago, he had seen this man's friendship with another child. With his mum.

"I have no friends." The ghost said it flatly, as if it were some kind of immutable truth.

"I know of at least two. The woman in the mirror was my mum. You were close, as children. Until you had a falling out, one she still might have forgiven you for, in time. But she married my dad, and the despair... led you to make some terrible choices."

"I do not remember any of that," the ghost said unsteadily. "Nor do I wish to."

"The other was that man in the portrait you met tonight. Albus Dumbledore. I know he cared for you quite deeply, and you for him. Enough to carry out his final wishes, at a terrible cost to yourself."

"I do not wish to hear this..."

"I know. But we don't have much time. Davey is very weak, Sir. If we don't do something soon, he will die."

The ghost flinched at that. Then he said, almost as if to himself, "I was not a brave man. I am certain of it."

"You are the bravest man I've ever known, Sir. All those things you did as a spy, all the ways you helped us, helped me..."

"I never had a choice!" the ghost cried out suddenly, as if the terrible truth were being drawn from him, like poison from a wound. "Never! I never had a choice about any of it!"

Harry gazed at the man kindly for a moment, then said, "You always had a choice, Sir. And you still do. If you care about David, help him now." He stood then and opened his arms to the ghost in invitation.

Snape struggled with himself a moment longer, then rose in the fluid motion Harry had seen hundreds of times as a boy, an easy grace he had never noticed or admired, until that moment.

The ghost stepped around the table and looked at him uncertainly. Harry was surprised then to realize they were now almost the same height. "What will you do without all those counter-curses of mine?" Snape asked, finally. Harry grinned.

"I've been an Auror for over twenty years, Professor. If I haven't learned enough counter-curses by now on my own, I probably ought to retire." He sobered, then added, "I'm scared, too, Professor."

The ghost nodded solemnly, then opened his own arms. Steeling himself against the cold he was expecting, Harry moved forward and felt a remarkably solid body wrap its arms around him. It was cool, but not cold. Harry closed his eyes, resting his chin on the other's shoulder, feeling the scratchy cloth of the Potion Master's phantom robes against his own unshaven cheek. He realized with a pang of regret, that he would be losing the memories of his mum he'd been holding on to all these years. But then he thought of Davey, and how few really good memories this man had accumulated in life, and he let go of them all. They were his, and Harry did not begrudge him any of them.

* * *

It hurt. The ghost was surprised, how painful it was, when his memories began flowing back into him, like liquid fire. It was overwhelming, to have the pieces of his soul reassembling themselves, jagged and broken like the pieces of the lamp on the table beside them. He pulled the man closer, to keep himself from pulling away, and fixed his thoughts firmly on the plight of his young friend. And slowly, he began to remember other young people who had relied on him, as surely as young David Dursley did now. Then he felt the regrets, that he had failed so many of them...

And then he felt another presence, pushing other memories at him. Of a boy on a broom whom he had saved from certain death, muttering a desperate counter-curse to counteract another's attempt to kill him, a child far too small to be playing Quidditch. Of interposing his body between three frightened children and the beast he feared more than any other, sure he was about to be killed along with them, regardless. Of himself deliberately playing a double game Merlin knew how many times, with Voldemort, Umbridge, Lucius Malfoy, Pettigrew, the Carrows.

And then Snape realized with a start that the boy he had so hated was the man holding on to him so fiercely now. Giving him back his memories, and something more, besides. Something not done solely for his young cousin, but for Severus Snape. Death Eater. Hated Potions Master. Greasy Bat of the Dungeons. As everything came flowing back in an overwhelming torrent of rage, and fear, and horror, he felt Harry holding on through it, when he did not have to. Sharing the pain, and the shame, of memories he himself had carried for so many years. Long enough to have, not pity, but compassion for an old enemy. Perhaps even to understand, a little.

And then, it was over. The ghost remembered everything. He stepped back and looked into the eyes of the boy he had once hated, his hands still on the other's shoulders. He struggled with himself for a long moment. Then, slowly, his features relaxed. He gave Harry's shoulders a final squeeze and stepped back.

"Well, Potter," he said finally, a little unsteadily. "Shall we go see to that cousin of yours, then?"

The irritating boy, now a man, grinned at him, and oddly, it wasn't so irritating anymore. "Yeah. I mean, yes, Sir."


	13. Consequences

**Part 13 - Consequences**

_Notes: I will place a small warning here-- some mildly disturbing content in the second half of this chapter. This section took a much darker turn than I was expecting. And I should thank cmwinters for an entry on her journal, wondering when someone would write a certain pairing suggested by the opening of DH. It certainly colored my rereading of it for this purpose._

_Also, I am unsure where I first encountered the phrase "Nimue preserve us." If someone reading this knows the origin of the phrase, please let me know so I can attribute it properly. It's a wonderful phrase, similar to those invoking the Mother of God, and I sure didn't come up with it myself. But I'll happily use it._

_Finally, it's the mark of a really good writer, when people mistake her story for canon. mistful is one such-- I got her description of a certain person on a train platform confused with a similar scene from DH, and I use it here. If you haven't read her "Coda to an Epilogue," stop now and go to my web page and navigate to 35950.html, or the entry for August 24, 2007 to read that instead. It's a much better story than this one. Please note that the links in my rec will expire in September of 2008, as the author is going on to professional status and pulling down her fanfic. I'm sure I'm not alone in wishing her the best._

* * *

The ghost promptly disappeared, and Harry trudged back up to the hospital wing, muttering darkly inventive curses only a man who'd spent years working under Kingsley Shacklebolt could have commanded.

When he got up to the hospital wing, he found Snape already sitting at his cousin's bedside, his ghostly hand holding the boy's. "He's breathing more easily," Hermione told him, "but he hasn't come around yet."

Snape glanced up and Harry glowered at him. "Thanks for waiting, Professor."

Snape turned back to David. "I am a ghost, Mr. Potter," he said mildly. "Surely you do not expect me to forgo the advantages of such a state merely for the pleasure of your company."

"Glad to see he hasn't changed much," Ron murmured.

Without looking his way, Snape replied, "I, for one, am sorry to see that you have, Mr. Weasley. What, pray tell, is that ridiculous growth on your upper lip? Or has Walrus become, in the years since my untimely demise, some sort of fashion statement?"

Ron spluttered for a moment as Harry and Hermione and even Neville snickered at him. Then, Ron said, looking disbelievingly at the twitching corner of his old teacher's lips, "Wait-- are you teasing me, Professor?"

The old Potions Master turned a baleful eye on him, lips still twitching slightly. "It seems to me that someone should." And Harry and Hermione could no longer contain their laughter. Even Neville joined in with a nervous chuckle. Only Rose looked affronted. Before she could protest, however, the boy on the bed stirred, and all eyes turned anxiously to him.

David stirred then and his eyes fluttered open. "Professor Snape," he breathed in obvious relief, as he saw the figure gripping his hand tightly. "You're all right, Sir." Then he looked around the room and caught sight of his nominative aunts and uncles. "Oh, I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to tell."

"It's quite all right, David," Snape said kindly, and Harry was struck by the fact that he had never heard that tone of voice from this man. Snape continued, "They knew me, from before. You kept the secret, perhaps longer than you should have. How long have you been having dreams?"

David looked at the hand holding his, ghostly and luminescent. "Since the summer holidays, Sir. I reread Hogwarts, A History. That's where I'd seen you before. There's a picture and everything."

Snape looked around the room, dumbfounded. "Since when am _I_ inHogwarts, A History?" he demanded.

Hermione said tentatively, "Since I published a revised edition ten years ago. Adding the War years. I, um, did a whole chapter on you."

"Sweet Nimue, preserve us," Snape breathed. "Why on Earth would you do something like that, Woman?"

"Because it was true," she replied simply. Then she turned to David, all business. "And how are you feeling Davey?"

David grimaced. "Like somebody ran over me with a truck. I mean, a hippogriff," he amended, seeing the blank expressions on several of the faces in the room.

"Yes, well," Hermione said. "If you gentlemen don't mind, I seem to have a patient now in need of my services. Harry, Ron, don't leave your reports for the last minute again, please..."

Neville rose. "I have a bit of marking I should probably finish up," he said, excusing himself.

"You should get some sleep," Hermione called after him, but he just shrugged.

"Look at the time, Hermione. Breakfast's in an hour. But don't worry-- I'll stick to safe topics for my classes today."

Rose looked a bit disappointed at that. "I was really looking forward to starting fanged geraniums today," she said, also rising. "Don't worry, Davey, I'll take good notes for you. And, nice to finally meet you, Professor Ghost, Sir."

Harry saw a smile flit across his old professor's face, gone so quickly he wasn't sure he'd seen it. The ghost rose, releasing the boy's hand. "Professor Snape," he corrected gently. "And I am charmed to have made your acquaintance, as well, Miss Weasley."

As Harry followed Ron and Rose to the door, he heard Snape say, "I am sure you are more than qualified to treat this illness now, Madam Weasley. However, should you require a bit more arcane knowledge about curses, or potions, please feel free to call upon me. I did make something of a study of both, in my youth."

Hermione was blushing a little as Harry looked back from the door. "Of course, Professor. And I will certainly keep you apprised of his progress."

The ghost nodded, then looked at the boy on the bed, tired and weak, but much improved from earlier in the night. He met the boy's eyes. "When you are stronger, David, we will talk. And I will tell you anything you wish to know."

David nodded. "Thank you, Professor."

Then the ghost vanished from sight, and Harry let the door close behind him.

* * *

Though to all outward appearances the ghost faded in and out at regular intervals, he seldom actually left the boy's side the entire time he was in the hospital wing. He watched his former students' visits with decidedly mixed emotions. Neville Longbottom was a professor now, Merlin help them all. Potter and Weasley were no surprise as Aurors-- they were just the sort of idiots Snape might have expected to gravitate to such a dangerous career. What was a surprise was their competence and professionalism, the insightful questions they asked for the Ministry report, and the connections they made.

He did return to his dungeon a few times, when David seemed to want to converse privately with Granger… that is, Madam Weasley. She was the least surprising of all—calm, efficient, as frighteningly intelligent as she had been all those years ago. He watched her work with a kind of grim pride.

But mostly, Snape kept his eye on David, who slept through a good deal of the first two weeks after his ordeal, aided by the thoughtful addition of Dreamless Sleep to his morning pumpkin juice, and to his warm milk after supper. The latter was administered by Madam Weasley, but the former... He knew it couldn't last forever, but he could not bear the thought of what the boy might see in dreams, while he was still so weak.

One afternoon, though, Madam Weasley came into the seemingly empty room and performed a few diagnostic spells on her sleeping patient. She hesitated, frowning, then called out softly, "Professor Snape? Are you here, Sir?"

Snape made himself visible at once, as he had promised he would. He could tell from her expression, however, that she was not intent on a collegial discussion of remedies and treatments. She looked him sternly in the eye. "You've been dosing David with something during the day, haven't you?"

Snape could see that she had already deduced the truth of it, so he said simply, "I have."

Her expression softened a bit. "I thought you might. In fact, I would have done so if you hadn't. But Sir, he's gone as far as rest alone can take him. We need to wean him off of it now. Do you concur?"

Snape felt his heart sink at that, though he'd been expecting it. "Yes."

Madam Weasley was studying his face, which he was doing his best to keep impassive. "It will be difficult for him now," she said gently. "He will start to dream again."

There was an alternative, one Snape had been giving considerable thought to, during the long quiet watches of the night. He hesitated, then said, "As you are no doubt aware, Madam, there are a number of memory modification spells and potions..." He let the suggestion hang in the air, his eyes on hers.

Madam Weasley nodded. "Yes. But as you are also aware, Professor, such therapies have side-effects. Davey has enough problems in that area as it is. You may recall, for instance, the effects they had on a boy named Neville Longbottom, some years ago." He flinched involuntarily, and she went on, "I am reluctant to administer such remedies until other avenues have been exhausted. Certainly I shall not do so without his informed and drug-free consent. And the consent of his parents."

Snape looked away. "I am unable to perform such delicate magic in my current state," he admitted.

"I know. Or I suspect you would already have tried. But Professor, I think Davey is made of sterner stuff than you give him credit for."

Snape felt a cold rage rise within him. "You have no idea, Woman, the things he is likely to have seen, the things I've done," he hissed viciously.

She did not even recoil from him. Instead she said, quite calmly, "Pardon me, Sir, but I do. It should come as no surprise to you that I did extensive research for my book. A number of your former... colleagues, were eager to share quite detailed and damning information about you."

That brought him up sharply. He blinked, then looked at her, surprised to see that while her expression was grim, it was not... He had no idea what he'd expected it to be. Horrified? Disgusted? Pitying?

She went on, her voice carefully dispassionate now. "I have made something of a study of the survivors of war and other trauma, over the years, Sir. They tend to have this one thing in common: they made a deal with the devil to get through it. They did things that would have been unthinkable to them, under normal circumstances. I have no doubt you did the same. And you _did_ survive. Long enough to help Harry when he needed you most. There is no shame in that."

Snape could not bear her steady compassionate gaze any longer. He fixed his eyes instead on the boy's lamp, so odd and delicate, on his bedside table. After a moment, he found his voice, raspy and a little broken. "How long?"

"He will probably wake in a few hours for supper. I suspect he will doze off afterwards. But he will certainly dream tonight."

Snape sank into the chair drawn up beside the bed and took the boy's hand in his, still not able to look at her. "Then, with your permission, Madam, I shall attend him."

She nodded. "I think that would be best, Sir." She watched him a moment longer, then turned away.

Snape sat there alone with the boy as the afternoon light waned and shadows lengthened. He disappeared briefly when the boy woke and Madam Weasley sat with him while he picked at his evening meal. But he reappeared as the boy dozed off again and Madam Weasley took his tray, giving the ghost a nod of acknowledgment as she left the room. He sat once again and waited, as the shadows deepened, making no move to light a lamp or candle. Watching the boy's deep, even breathing. And waiting.

* * *

The boy whimpered in his sleep, his breathing becoming erratic, eyes moving rapidly under the lids. Snape tightened his grip on the boy's hand and murmured soothing words. The boy relaxed, and for a moment Snape thought he had drifted back down to sleep. But then a raspy whisper pierced the darkness.

"Professor. Are you there?"

Snape cast a dim lumos, then lit the boy's bedside lamp. "Yes."

David's face was pale, but he also seemed relieved. He stared at the ceiling overhead for a time, as Snape grasped his hand and projected warmth into it. Then the boy said, in a stronger voice, "I was having a dream."

"I gathered as much. An unpleasant one, from all indications."

"Yeah." David lapsed into silence again, his eyes far away. Snape mustered all his courage to break that silence.

"Tell me."

David looked at him in surprise. But Snape kept his eyes steady, fixed on the boy's unflinchingly. The boy nodded slowly.

"All right." The boy moistened dry, cracked lips with his tongue, and Snape helped him take a sip of water from the glass on his bedside table. Then the boy lay back against his pillow and said, "I saw a woman. Suspended above a table. She… she begged you for help. By name."

Snape wanted to look away, but he forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on David. "Yes. She did."

"Who was she?"

"Professor Charity Milwyn Burbage. Hogwarts Professor of Muggle Studies from 1986 to 1996."

"Professor. Like you."

Snape smiled sadly. "Nothing like me, David."

"Did you love her?"

Snape thought for a time how best to answer that. "She had reason to believe I... cared for her." The reply was delicate, but not evasive. But the boy was not nearly as naive as Snape had hoped.

"Were you lovers?"

Snape thought about lying, but something in the boy's eyes compelled the truth. "A few times, over the years."

"And you were friends."

"After a fashion."

"You watched her die. Without showing any emotion at all on your face."

"I did that by _not having any emotion_ at all about it."

David thought about that for a minute. Then he said, very softly, "Tell me about her."

Snape began haltingly, listing her academic credentials, her publications. David had read some of her papers for class. But at David's gentle probing questions, he found himself remembering and relating all kinds of things. The way the sunlight looked in her hair. How she liked ginger biscuits. How she could do impressions of their students that left him helpless with laughter when they were alone, and hard-pressed to contain himself when they were not. How she thought Albus' robes were indicative of a mental disorder. How she liked to walk in the warm summer rain up from Hogsmeade.

"That's why she died, isn't it?" Snape said, almost to himself. "Death Eaters must have captured her on the way back up to school." He'd never known, had never gone out of his way to find out, at the time. He had cleaned out her office and sent her effects to her family with a dutifully penned and vague letter of condolence in his capacity as headmaster. But he had never allowed himself to grieve her loss. Until now. And he really should have foreseen the danger. Voldemort had been broadcasting his intentions to do something _special_ to Muggle sympathizers that whole damned summer. "I killed her," he breathed, as the realization dawned. "It was my fault."

"Did you mean her harm?" the boy asked, quietly.

Snape looked over at him, his eyes bleak. "My dear boy, it is quite possible to cause immeasurable harm without intending it."

"Yes. But Voldemort killed her. Not you."

"Do you think that matters, child? I would have, had he asked it of me."

"Would you have tortured her first?"

"It would not have been the first time I did such a thing."

"Yeah. I have seen some of that, too. In my dreams."

Snape did look away then and close his eyes, not daring to imagine what David must have witnessed. When he found his voice again, he said hopefully, "Mr. Dursley, there are a number of memory modification charms and potions that could remove these troubling experiences from your mind..."

"No." Just that. Flat and decisive.

Snape turned back to him. "You are a child, my boy! You should not have to live with the sins of a man who died before you were born. Particularly sins so vile as mine."

David looked him in the eye for a long moment, his face suddenly much older than his years. Then he said slowly, "Aunt Hermione thinks I have what Muggles call 'second sight'. I can-- find things. People. Know things about them, from touching objects connected to them. Usually, it's small stuff. I thought for the longest time everybody could do it, and then when I found out about magic, that all wizards could do it. So I never really talked about it much. I used to tease Rosie, saying I had Seer dreams. I'm thinking now, that may be how I was drawn to you, my first day at school."

His voice seemed so childlike, so innocent. As if they were in the lab talking about Charms theory, or Quidditch scores. But there was something chilling in the boy's eyes. When he went on, his voice was very soft. "At the beginning of the summer holiday, I saw something... else. This kid on our street came up missing. And I saw where they were going to find him, before they did. What happened to him. What the man who killed him looked like."

Snape stared at the boy, frozen in horror.

David continued, "I started having new dreams soon after that. You were in most of them, one way or another. I saw... but you're my friend. I_ know_ you. I started trying to find out, then, who you were. To make sense of what I saw. I figured you had to have been in the War. So I started reading histories. And I found you."

"Why... why didn't you tell me?"

David shook his head. "The more I saw, the more I realized, why you didn't want those memories back. You seemed... much happier without them."

"But they were harming you."

David shrugged. "I didn't know that. Not until I woke up with you and Uncle Harry and everyone all around."

"You were very foolish, Boy." Snape struggled with his emotions for a long moment, then gripped the boy's hand more tightly. "But... thank you."

David smiled, a little sadly. "I think I got the better end of the deal, Sir. You had to take all that awful stuff back. It's all been fading for me since that night. Before I got sick, it had got to the point where it was always in front of my eyes, even when I was awake. And the dream tonight wasn't as… bad as before. But, don't you see? I'm always going to see stuff like this. I need to be able to understand it."

Snape regarded him silently, remembering another brave, if foolish, boy. But he couldn't argue with the child's conclusion. At length he said, "I don't know if things like this can be understood, David. But we will talk. As often as you need it. All right?"

David nodded, his eyelids starting to droop a little, as if they were growing heavy. Snape said, "I think you should rest more now. Don't worry, though. I won't leave."

David slowly relaxed back into sleep, Snape cradling the boy's hand in both of his. Such was the unfairness of life, he thought, that an innocent like David Dursley would be afflicted with something like this. He knew it was much more prevalent in Muggles than wizards, a type of unbiddable magic that had no effect on the conscious magic that made one a wizard. Regardless, this boy did not deserve it.

He sat with his young friend for the rest of the night, the boy now sleeping peacefully. And though Severus Snape had given up wishing long ago, he wished now with all his dead heart that there were some way to spare the boy the horrors this ability would bring. Just as he had wished, years before, that another boy, one he had hated, might be spared a destiny he likewise hadn't deserved.


	14. Light in the Darkness

**Part 14 - Light in the Darkness**

_Thanks to ladyclover, rainkatt, emmessann and Wee Hob for fantastic beta work. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own. Thanks also to everyone who read and commented. The response has been somewhat overwhelming. But as feedback is the only payment a fanfic author can receive, I must say I feel very well-compensated this time around. Thanks, all._

* * *

David Dursley was back to class within another week, though he was sidelined from the Quidditch team until the Christmas holidays, after which time Madam Weasley promised to reevaluate his fitness to play. 

Professor Snape went back to a slightly adjusted routine. No more mirror gazing-- now that he knew the danger, he was quite able to withstand its siren call, though some nights were more difficult than others. The two children came to study in his lab nearly every night, often accompanied by Professor Longbottom. Snape found the young professor-- now almost his own age at death-- to be a surprisingly intelligent and agreeable colleague.

Snape made himself available whenever David needed to talk about his dreams, and he found that processing those old horrors was as healing for him in some ways as it was for the boy. They also discovered that a number of the disturbing images David was seeing were not from Snape's memories at all, but were a kind of spiritual residue from the events of the final battle with Voldemort's forces, here on the grounds of Hogwarts.

One night, a few days prior to the end of the term, he was in his lab brewing what he hoped would prove an enhanced formulation of Pepper-up. Madam Wesley had promised to test it for safety and efficacy, and Longbottom, _no, he reminded himself, Neville_, had promised to add it to the school's stores if she gave her approval. Before, he hadn't much cared about the waste his brewing had generated, but now, he found himself pleased at the prospect of making some contribution, however minimal.

Behind him, Rose and Davey were laboring over their end of term essays at a nearby worktable, and Neville was silently perusing a journal article Snape had recommended to him. A strange contentment washed over him, and he paused in his stirring to savor it in a way he never had when he'd been a living man.

Looking over at the children, their heads bent close together, he overheard Rose saying, "No Davey, look, bloodwort's spelled with an 'o'..."

"That_is_ an 'o', Rosie."

"Most o's don't have this little tail trailing down, David. That's an 'a'."

"Is not. You need stronger glasses..."

"I swear I'm getting you an enchanted quill for Christmas..."

Snape covered a smile out of old habit, then caught himself and grinned openly, though nobody was looking up just then to see. It was really quite remarkable. He might choose to conceal his emotions at times, for he was still a very private man. But he no longer had to worry that some slip in his emotional control would have disastrous, perhaps deadly consequences.

He glanced up at a motion caught out of the corner of his eye. Harry Potter stood in the doorway, a slight grin on his own lips. Snape turned his attention back to his cauldron and said gruffly, "What do you want, Potter?"

"Good evening, Professor Snape. Neville. Kids." He folded his arms, leaned against the doorway, and winked at David and Rose.

Neville smiled. "Hey, Harry." He pulled a pocketwatch from his vest pocket and made a show of examining it. "My, look at the time, Professor. In about 9 minutes, one of us will have to deduct points from the noble Houses of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, for two of their own being out after curfew."

Davey and Rose were packing instantly, though their grins indicated this was something of a familiar ritual by now. Snape replied smoothly, "Now, Professor Longbottom, you know I am no longer a faculty member in good standing. You will have to perform that duty yourself, however painful..."

"You just love making me take points from my own House," Neville shot back. Snape smiled malevolently at him.

"Not at all, Professor. But if you are incapable of carrying out your duties..."

The children were headed out the door then, calling cheerful good nights over their shoulder. Neville packed up his own bag, saying, "I'll bring this article back tomorrow, if that's all right, Sir."

"I am not a lending librarian," Snape grumbled, not hiding his pleasure for a moment.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you. Good night, Professor, Harry."

Snape looked irritably at the remaining living occupant of his domain. "Well, Potter?" he said, when the Auror made no move to break the silence, seemingly preferring to stand there with a smile still ghosting his lips.

The smile faded and Harry turned serious, looking at him searchingly. "How are you, Professor?"

Snape blinked, surprised by the concern. After a moment, "I'm dead, Mister Potter. And you?" As he said it, he noticed the fatigue lines still evident upon the man's face.

"I'll be all right, Sir."

Snape realized that in his concern for David, he had quite forgotten the effects this bout of dark magic poisoning might have had on the third person involved. "If you ever wanted to talk to someone, Potter..." the ghost began, awkwardly.

Harry was shaking his head. "Thanks, Professor, but Hermione got the Department set up with Muggle-style trauma counselors years ago. I've even used them on occasion. I really will be all right."

"...I was going to say, you can damned well find someone else, as it's harrowing enough doing it for your young cousin," the ghost finished smoothly. But there was no heat behind it, and he saw Harry do a double take before grinning back. The man would eventually come to appreciate his humor, Snape supposed, and the thought did not bother him nearly so much as it should have.

"So, Potter. What brings you down here tonight? Nostalgia for Remedial Potions?"

Harry went solemn, but there was still mischief in his bright green eyes. "No, Sir. Official Business." He reached into the vest pocket of his robes and drew out two rolls of parchment, one small, one quite thick, both fastened shut with the green wax seal of the Ministry of Magic.

Snape took the parchment with some trepidation. Whenever a Potter looked that pleased with himself, he was bound to be up to no good, whether his name was Harry or James. Laying the smaller roll aside on his worktable, he broke the seal of the other, unrolled it, and sniffed disdainfully.

"I see your penmanship is not much improved," the ghost observed. Then he began to read. After the first lines, he drew his wand from his robes and extinguished the flame under his cauldron absently. He read the whole document twice, then rolled it up and said, a trifle unsteadily, "Quite a little work of fiction you've penned here, Mister Potter."

Harry managed to keep a straight face. "Really, Sir? In what way?"

Snape scowled. "Quite extraordinary, in fact. A Hogwarts student, poisoned by Dark Magic, by means of the Mirror of Erised and an unnamed ghost. Which ghost, conveniently, vanished as soon as the intrepid Aurors Ronald Weasley and Harry James Potter destroyed said Mirror."

"Amazing," Harry agreed lightly.

Snape hesitated. "Is it destroyed, then?"

"Not yet. You haven't been back, Sir?"

Snape gave him what he hoped was a withering look. "After all the trouble it's caused, I've given it a rather wide berth, Mister Potter. Nonetheless, I will be... relieved, when it is beyond reach."

"We'll probably need your help to get into the room. Albus didn't think to record the specifics of his ward design into his portrait, but I believe you may know some avenues we haven't thought of yet."

"You'll also have to use Living Fire to completely destroy the Mirror, you realize," the ghost added thoughtfully. "By now, it's almost a sentient being in its own right, though more like a vampire than a human consciousness. It only knows what it needs, or can consume."

Harry nodded. "I had hoped to consult with you about that, as well, Sir."

Snape's lips quirked upwards slightly. "I am at your disposal, Mister Potter," he replied. "And this unnamed ghost-- any ideas who it might have been?"

"None. Too bad, really."

"Yes." Snape looked hard at him. "You know, Mister Potter, I realize I have been a bit out of touch lately, but I seem to recall that deliberately falsifying a Ministry report was a serious matter."

Harry shrugged in the way that used to annoy Snape most. "There was no compelling reason to reveal your presence, Sir. Enough Death Eaters died in the Battle of Hogwarts who could easily have been responsible for the symptoms Davey suffered. There was no reason to drag you into it."

Snape pursed his lips, then said slowly, "I see. In that case… thank you, Mister Potter."

Harry inclined his head, looking a little more insufferable than before. "Aren't you going to open the other one, Sir?"

Snape examined the smaller roll suspiciously. He opened it, examined the contents, then sat down slowly on the nearby stool, stunned. In his hand were three documents. A business type card bearing Harry's name and Ministry title: Senior Investigator, Auror's Department, Supernatural Anomalies Division, Ministry for Magic. A legal document identifying the bearer of same as a Hogwarts Ghost, and conferring on him all the "rights and privileges appertaining thereto." And a gold-embossed rectangle that looked like a train ticket, reeking of magic.

"What... what do you mean by this, Potter?"

"I understand you and the Baron have had a few talks lately. About your new state, and the legal ramifications of it."

Snape nodded. The Baron had come down the day he had returned to his laboratory alone, when David had gone up to breakfast and his first day of classes since his illness. Snape had been surprised to discover that wizarding ghosts had their own society, and that ghosts connected with Hogwarts, especially those who died on its grounds, were especially well-regarded. Apparently the Shrieking Shack counted as grounds, if only because Dumbledore had warded it thus years ago, during the student days of a certain young werewolf. It still irked him that, in a roundabout way, he owed anything to Remus Lupin. Merlin rest his mangy bones.

"Then you know, Sir, that being recognized legally as a Hogwarts Ghost gives you an enormous amount of freedom, should you choose to exercise your rights. Here, lay those on the worktable." Snape did so, and Harry tapped each one with his wand. The parchment and card and ticket turned misty white, and Snape found he no longer needed to concentrate to handle the physical objects. They now felt the same to him as his own wand, or any of the oddments he found when he examined the contents of his pockets.

"Neat, huh?"

But Snape was not diverted by the unfamiliar, if fascinating, magic. "What do you mean by this, Potter?" he asked again, a little more firmly. Harry grinned.

"This ticket will get you on any wizarding conveyance in the world, including those that have exorcism charms and wards on them, and most Muggle ones as well. As long as you cause no disruptions, you can, quite literally, go anywhere you like."

_Anywhere_.

"And this is my card. You produce this if you ever get into any difficulty, and if I can't come myself, I will see to it that someone does." Harry paused, then added, "I don't know if the Baron has made you aware of the Ministry Regulations governing ghosts, but malicious haunting of the living is strictly forbidden. So, um, if you were planning to do such a thing, I'd have to ask you not to." He paused again, considering. "Except for Malfoy, of course. I might be inclined to look the other way on that. As long as you were discreet." His grin grew broader.

Snape continued to look at him, stunned beyond words.

"You have choices again, Professor," the man told him, serious now. "You've more than earned them. That legal document identifies you, not only as a Hogwarts Ghost, but as having the right to keep your actual identity secret. Produce it at need, and no power on this earth can force you to reveal your true form to anyone unless you wish it, nor are you required to give anyone your true name. You're free, Sir."

Snape shook his head slowly, as if to clear it. He stared down at the glowing, translucent items in his hand. Then he found his voice. "Thank you, Potter," he said softly.

Harry grinned and pulled up the stool Neville had vacated a few minutes before. Snape felt him studying his face, and his old habits kicked in automatically. "Well, Potter? What do you want now?"

Harry seemed unperturbed by his tone. "I was wondering, Sir, what plans you had for the holidays."

Plans. He really could have plans if he chose. But after so many years attending to the plans of others, he couldn't even bring an idea of his own to mind. Aloud, he said drily, "I have not had plans for the holidays, Mister Potter, since well before you were born."

Harry inclined his head, as if this were not news to him. Then he said, a little hesitantly, "I was wondering Sir, if you would come to my home, at least for Christmas Day."

Snape stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why on earth would I do such a thing?" he asked.

Harry shrugged-- did the boy know how irritating it was? "It's become something of a tradition, to have the family gather together on that day. Even the more unpleasant members of it. Vernon and Petunia will be there—you remember her..."

Snape didn't even take offense at "unpleasant members"-- he was still back there trying to wrap his mind around Potter's unaccountable use of the word "family" with reference to him. "You-- wish me to come to your home?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, Sir. Davey will be there, as well, and it will mean a lot to him. But there are some others you might not find it painful to see. Minerva McGonagall is getting on in years, but she still comes over for dinner. All the Weasley clan—well, no getting out of that one, as I married their youngest, and they live next door. You needn't reveal yourself unless you wish-- only we who know you would be able to see you."

Snape looked back down at the documents in his hand. "Thank you, Mister Potter, but, really, I..."

"Please, say you'll come," came a new voice from the doorway. Snape turned to see David standing in it, watching them hopefully. Harry smiled, as if he'd been aware of the boy's presence for some time.

Snape slipped back into professor mode instantly. "Ten points from Gryff... Hufflepuff, Mister Dursley," he said, catching himself. "What are you doing back down here?"

"You really have to come, Sir," David said. "What will you do here all alone?"

"Well, I'm not, that is... You explain it to him, Potter."

"I think my mind must be too feeble to grasp your reasoning, Sir. All those bludger injuries, wasting my time playing Quidditch at school, no doubt."

Snape looked from one to the other. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

Harry extended his hand. "Yes, Sir, we are."

Snape still hesitated. Harry said, "If you need some task to perform, someone will probably need to keep David company. He tends to wake up in the night, you know. And he does like to talk."

Snape glanced over at David with an unreadable expression on his face, then said slowly, "I suppose I could do that." He took Harry's hand and shook it firmly.

David's smile was as broad and open as a sunrise. Snape scowled at him on principle. "And you had best come along with me, Mister Dursley. Apparently, your bludger injuries have rendered you incapable of finding your dormitory. Good night to you, Mister Potter."

"Good Night, Professor."

Harry watched them go, heard their teasing banter echoing down the corridor. It was still strange to think of Severus Snape as a man capable of having a friend. Friends. He glanced over at the worktable, where the wires and glass had been fashioned at last into one of Davey's lamps. It shone brightly in the room, giving off a warm glow quite distinct from the other lamps scattered around the room. An old proverb came to him then, and he smiled.

_It is better to light a candle, than to curse the darkness._

* * *

_Want to read a commentary on the writing of this fic? Go to my web page and navigate to 48717.html, or the entry for October 27, 2007. For some reason, it's not taking my link. _

_ I think adding it as a chapter is against the terms of service I agreed to. Thanks for reading, and for reviewing. I worked on a sequel to this as part of Nano07, so there may be more eventually in this universe. _


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